Julian stood outside his apartnt, sharply dressed in black and white, his formal outfit crisp against the bright street.
The city air clung to him, restless, buzzing with the faint hum of traffic in the distance.
He checked his phone again. And again. Two minutes. That was all it had been, yet each second dragged like an hourglass dripping sand one stubborn grain at a ti.
Finally, sound of horns cut across the street, and a sleek black car pulled up in front of him.
"He sure is fast," Julian muttered under his breath, though impatience still sat heavy in his chest.
He slid inside quickly, the door shutting with a muted thud, and snapped on his seatbelt. "Let's go."
"Where to?" Simon asked, hands steady on the wheel.
"Hotel Roswell. Fanfoss. Second Main Street."
"You sure?"
"You bet." Julian's tone burned with conviction, but beneath it, a whisper of doubt lingered, like smoke curling under a closed door. He could be wrong, he knew he could, but not this ti. Not this one.
The distance stretched out before them, fifteen kiloters of road, a strip of asphalt that felt more like a tightrope. Every turn of the tires gave him too much ti to think, to imagine all the ways this could unravel.
"By the way…" Julian's voice cut through the silence, softer now, weighed down. "Sorry for the delay. I should've seen it earlier. Everything was clear from the start."
Simon didn't take his eyes off the road. His voice, calm and unshaken, filled the car like a steady hand on a frayed rope.
"Don't worry about it. The only ti to apologize is if we walk away empty-handed. Until then, there's nothing to regret."
Julian leaned back against the seat, watching the cars passing left and right. He wanted to believe him. Wanted to let that steadiness anchor him. And yet, the confidence that had burned in his chest minutes ago was already dimming, like a candle flickering low in the wind.
Sensing it, Simon asked casually, "So… how'd you figure it out?"
Julian turned to look at him, but only for a mont. His gaze shifted back to the road ahead, endless and bright. Where should he even begin? And worse, what if his reasoning only held weight inside his own head?
What if it collapsed the second it t Simon's calm, sharp logic?
Still, the thought of backing down now was worse. He clenched his jaw, steadying himself.
"It's a card ga," he told himself. "You don't fold with a winning hand. You play it out, even if your hands are telling you not to."
Finally, Julian cleared his throat, forcing the clutter of thoughts into order.
"There's more than enough ti to get there. Should I explain everything in detail?"
"Yeah, go on."
"Alright, first things first," Julian began quickly, his words asured but pushing forward.
"You and I both knew Mrs. Roan was hiding sothing. Maybe lying, maybe not telling the full truth. Either way, sothing was up.”
“Every question you asked? Her husband, the work, the kids, their relationship. She answered cleanly. It was too neat for soone who was flustered hard, minutes ago. Kinda felt like she was trying to prove how untouchable she is.
Playing the perfect wife."
He glanced at Simon, caught the faint nod, and leaned in a little.
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"The washroom. The mont I stepped in, I could feel her eyes on . Inside was nothing unusual. Towels, soaps, all the regular junk. But then there was the bill. Didn't hit right away, because the other pieces were scattered in her room.”
“'Roo and Juliet' on the nightstand, stress-relief pills tucked away. That's where the pattern showed. She's the one straining under the marriage. She's clinging to sothing broken, and the literature she surrounds herself with screams it."
Julian spoke faster now, not giving Simon's silence a chance to cut in.
"The issue of not having a child? It's not Steven's fault; it's hers. You could hear it in the way she answered, like a guilty tale a kid could spot. And the age gap? Her family forced it because they already knew. From what I know, Steven isn't the type to obsess over kids. But once he got banned from Black Palace, maybe he dragged it up, turned it into fuel for conflict. That's common."
He exhaled sharply, pressing the next point.
"And yes, she knows Steven takes white powder, but she hides it. She's terrified of stepping out of line, which is why that bill matters. Layka Restaurant, opposite Roswell Hotel. That's Steven's. It has to be. The wife wouldn't risk sothing so reckless, not after building her whole act around being flawless. She plays it safe.”
Julian lowered his voice, driving the last nail in.
"And the woman Roan called? That was her only acquaintance. The shock on her face wasn't just about us. Mrs. Roan isn't soone who mingles with the outside world. She stay
s in her perfect box."
The perfect wife model.
He let the weight of it hang for a mont before breaking it himself. "Well? What do you think?"
"Good. It's worth both the trouble and the ti," Simon replied, but the flatness in his tone stripped the words of any weight.
"Alright." Julian let it go, still satisfied inside. Whether the words carried weight or not didn't matter. The good was enough.
After weaving through multiple crossroads and heavy traffic, they finally reached the Roswell Hotel.
Both n stepped out of the car, where a valet in a black suit approached. But before he could take the keys, Simon dismissed him with a curt, "It won't take much ti."
The valet gave the car a quick glance, then bowed slightly, stepping aside to clear their way.
Simon moved forward, leading with purpose, while Julian trailed behind. For a mont, Julian tilted his head back, his eyes tracing up the face of the twelve-story building.
"Not a bad place," he muttered.
They both pushed open the glass door, and instantly the tal detector scread its unwelco song of bad luck.
Guards in black suits, broad shoulders, and sharp eyes, stood at each corner, while others drifted like restless sharks, scanning the lobby.
The signal drew their attention at once. One spoke quickly into a walkie-talkie, another gestured for backup, and within seconds Simon and Julian were being surrounded.
Guests noticed too, subtle murmurs rippling through the air, but…
Simon and Julian remained calm. Still. Like quiet seawater before a storm. Why? Because they both knew damn well these n couldn't do a thing against them.
"This is one of the best perks, eh?" Julian muttered under his breath, lips twitching with a smirk.
They reached the reception desk. Simon didn't waste a second.
"Tell the room number of Steven Roan," he said flatly, placing a Black Card on the counter.
The receptionist stiffened. Nervous eyes darted from their faces to the circle of guards closing in.
But the mont his gaze fell on the card, his deanor shifted.
He motioned discreetly for the guards to fall back. "No problems here," he murmured into the small headset in his ear.
"Yes, please wait for a mont," he said aloud, retreating into the safety of his computer screen.
Simon stood silently. Julian leaned back on the desk, palms pressed lightly against the wood, his gaze roaming over the lobby.
The guards returned to their posts, but a few pairs of eyes lingered on them. Golden light spilled down from chandeliers, bouncing off polished white tiles. Elegant.
The perfect mask for a place like this.
"Shit never gets old, does it?" Julian thought, his grin tugging wider.
"Room 1104," the receptionist finally said, placing a key card on the counter. "And… here's the MasterCard."
Simon took it, gave the man a short nod, and turned to leave. But the receptionist hesitated, his voice almost trembling.
"Should we also evacuate the civilians? Or… at least warn them to stay in their rooms?"
Simon turned halfway, ready to assure him there was no need for panic. But Julian cut in first, his voice smooth, almost casual:
"No need. We aren't here to set off fireworks this early."
That seed enough. The receptionist nodded, relieved.
Their footsteps echoed across the marble floor, light taps against the polished white surface. Guards' eyes still tracked them from a distance, but no one moved. The glow of golden chandeliers draped the hall, illuminating the pillars that held up this massive place.
The elevator waited open, as if expecting them. They stepped in together. Simon pressed the button for the 11th floor—their destination.
Simple. Room 1104. Open the door. Ask the questions. Collect the answers.
At least, that's what it looked like on the surface.
Julian's mind, however, spun elsewhere.
Didn't Jimmy and his crew already ask these sa questions? Did they even get real answers? He wanted to believe yes, because if the Black Palace already knew the suppliers, or at least the dealers, then why hadn't they stopped it?
No… this wasn't just about fitting puzzle pieces anymore. It was about finding the staircase. But where did it lead? Further down into the abyss… or to sothing worse?
The elevator chid. The doors slid open with a whisper.
A long hallway stretched ahead, drowned in suffocating silence. Their footsteps carried them forward, numbers ticking in Julian's head with each passing door.
1100.
1101.
1102.
1103.
Finally—
110?
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